


The Problem With A Shuttle Full Of Intoxicated Bots

by Cici_Nota



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Crack, Epic Fail, Gen, Humor, Turning human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cici_Nota/pseuds/Cici_Nota
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodimus and Drift fall afoul of local regulations on Hedonia, and then Whirl happens. You can see the tags; you know it does not go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unfinished. It will probably never be finished. In fact, you should probably stop reading right now. It got stuck in my head after the juxtaposition of MTMTE #13 and G1 ep 88.

**Hedonia**

The problem with a shuttle full of intoxicated Cybertronians, it would be reflected later, was that none of them was apparently capable of responding to anything in a timely or effective fashion. So when the sun started edging over the horizon, and neither their captain nor their third in command were anywhere to be seen, the first reaction was to stare at the empty door with a sense of betrayal.

The sudden activation of the emergency locator beacons for both Rodimus and Drift forestalled whatever the second reaction would have been, sparking an argument instead.

“But they’re _emergency_ beacons. We’re supposed to go get them.”

“Hey, Roddy was the one who said if anyone was late, he gets left behind. That was the deal.”

“But we’re talking about the captain here. And Drift,” was added almost as an afterthought.

Under most circumstances, Ultra Magnus would have stepped in and stopped the argument before it even started; the events of the night, however, meant that the XO was still thoroughly incapacitated and in no condition to make any kind of decision whatsoever.

“Has anyone tried actually calling either one of them?” asked someone, acidly.

That brief spark of hope that someone else would take responsibility for what was turning into a total mess was dashed when neither Autobot answered, and in the resulting spate of confused arguing, no one noticed when Whirl disappeared.

“All of you shut up. I’ll handle this.”  Cyclonus spoke in calm, measured tones, and those of Swerve’s crew who had been at the bar – excluding Tailgate – glanced at him in surprise before edging away just in case he broke into another bout of sudden raging tantrum.

From what little could be gleaned of Rewind’s recordings afterward, it took very little time for Cyclonus to determine that Rodimus and Drift had somehow managed to break some kind of law, and that they had been tried, judged, and punished according to the laws of Hedonia. It was at that point that Cyclonus’ diplomatic capabilities sputtered out, because not only were both of their superior officers were currently being held in stasis in a Hedonian prison ward, but the prison refused to do business on a holiday. Which, of course, it was, as was the following day, and the sun slowly rose over a shuttle full of increasingly cranky Autobots and a very frustrated not-now-and-never-was-a-Decepticon.

“You want me to wait three days,” Cyclonus said carefully, his voice perilously even, wishing that Ultra Magnus was conscious enough to beat the Hedonians over the head with their own red tape and yanking Swerve back inside by the ankle. That made more escape attempts than he could count, but if he could control nothing else, he could at least make sure everyone besides Whirl stayed put.

“Now would be a good time to go,” Whirl’s voice said from the door of the shuttle. Whirl himself was invisible behind two stasis pods, one carelessly stacked on the other. “Like, a really good time. Right now.”

Cyclonus, to his credit, barely hesitated before slamming the doors shut and lifting off, and it was a full three and a half seconds before Hedonian law enforcement started chasing the shuttle.

“More than enough time to rendezvous with the Lost Light and jump,” Whirl said, not at all helpfully, and the resulting confusion meant that the Lost Light was well out of communications range of Hedonia by the time anyone thought to take the two stasis boxes (and Ultra Magnus) out of the shuttle.

**Lost Light, Medibay**

Faced with all three in a neat little row, Ratchet solved the simplest problem first and went for Ultra Magnus. “Idiot,” he muttered, checking the XO over for any damage other than the obvious.

“It was Whirl’s fault,” Swerve said from near the door. Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure that everyone who’d gone on shore leave wasn’t clustered in the hallway, gleefully watching their entire command chain in its current state of incapacitation.

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ ,” he said, smirking as Swerve spluttered in indignation, and slammed the door closed. He locked it for good measure. Ultra Magnus was in no danger, he decided, just in for some nasty morning-after symptoms.  “Next time maybe you’ll think before downing weapons-grade nucleon,” he muttered.

It was possible that Ultra Magnus giggled. For his own sanity, Ratchet decided to pretend that nothing of the sort had happened and left him on a recharging berth to recover.

“Hey,” came a voice behind him.

“I thought I locked the door,” Ratchet said without looking at First Aid.

“You did, but I was already inside,” First Aid said, fingers resting on the seal of one of the stasis boxes. “But what’s important here is the error message.”

“What do you mean, error message?” Stasis boxes – or at least that particular brand of stasis boxes – weren’t supposed to put out error messages. They were complex and finicky machines that either worked, or they didn’t, and if one component failed, the entire machine shut down. They certainly didn’t display error messages.

“Exactly what I said. Error message.” First Aid pointed at the display on the nearest box.

“Error: Atmospheric composition incompatible,” Ratchet read off, and blinked. “That’s ridiculous.” He pushed the release command again, and the error message repeated. This time it was followed by “For more information, click below.”

First Aid reached around him and pushed the button. “Required atmospheric composition: 78% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, 0.9% argon,” he read from the resulting display, ignoring the slightly longer list of trace elements.

Ratchet started to experience a distinct sinking feeling.

“That sounds like a requirement for an organic species,” First Aid said, now tapping at something else. “It says the temperature is within acceptable range, though.”

“Perceptor,” Ratchet said through the comm system and waved at First Aid to be quiet. “The medical bay is going to be quarantined for the forseeable future.” There was simply no other way to maintain atmospheric integrity; the Lost Light wasn’t outfitted for organics.

Perceptor’s surprised reply overlaid with First Aid’s louder “What do you mean, quarantined” to provide a truly impressive level of dissonance. “First Aid, _stop talking_ ,” Ratchet said over Perceptor’s request to know what in Primus’ name was going on.

“I see,” Perceptor said after a very brief and probably somewhat incoherent explanation. “There’s no need for quarantine,” he added.

“Cybertronian ships don’t –“ Ratchet started.

“Ultra Magnus specified that the ship chosen be capable of supporting organic life. Specifically, human life.” Ratchet knew from Perceptor’s voice that the blasted bot was smiling. Inexplicably, Perceptor found something funny in the situation. “I believe he did the final modifications himself.”

Ratchet stared at the currently unconscious form of the XO on the recharging berth across the room. “Of course he did,” he muttered.

“Uncle Magnus,” Swerve said from outside the door, somehow having managed to bypass the lock and pry it open. “No, really, this explains a lot. Well, it doesn’t really, it raises more questions than it answers.”

The door was slammed shut again with more force than was strictly necessary.

“I can have a human-breathable atmosphere holding shipwide within the hour,” Perceptor assured him, and signed off.

Ratchet wondered briefly if he could just jettison both stasis pods and claim an accident. By the time he concluded that Ultra Magnus would just drown him in paperwork and turn the ship around, Perceptor was back on the line confirming what Ratchet’s external sensors had already told him; the Lost Light was swamped with oxygen, nitrogen, and argon. First Aid, who had made himself scarce during the delay, perched on the regeneration berth next to Ultra Magnus – well out of range of any potential incident – and proceeded to watch. Ratchet elected to ignore him entirely.

“I don’t even know how they would have built human bodies in such a short time frame,” he said to the stasis pods, pushing first one release button and then the other. The lid on the closer pod hissed and rose, eddies of fog swirling around the edges.  The dense mist cleared to reveal Rodimus – in his proper body – curled on his side, facing away from Ratchet. “Atmosphere, my aft,” Ratchet muttered. “Wake up, Rodimus,” he said irritably.

“Ugh,” came from inside the stasis box, and the voice was _all wrong._ Ratchet froze.  “Ratchet?”

The voice was definitely all wrong; it was Rodimus, but coming from a throat much smaller and clearly organic. Ratchet peered into the stasis pod, over the limp body of the ship’s captain.  A distinctly human form was climbing groggily to its – his – feet, clutching at Rodimus’ torso to keep his balance.

“Rodimus?” he said.

“Ow, not so loud,” said the human, rubbing one hand over bright blue eyes. A shock of bright hair, reddish-orange except for the pale straw patch directly in front, stood almost straight up along one side.  “Wait.” The human – probably Rodimus - blinked, looked down at himself, and blinked again. “What?”

Someone on Hedonia had a sense of humor. They’d given the human pants, boots, and a jacket that closely matched Rodimus’ paint job. They’d even given him bright yellow gloves.

“Oh, Primus,” the human – definitely Rodimus – groaned. “Please tell me this is some sort of offline hallucination.”

“It is not a hallucination.” Drift somehow managed to sound almost exactly like himself, perched dramatically on his own mechanical shoulder, organic arms folded across his chest. His dark hair was impeccably smooth, framing eyes almost the exact shade of blue as Rodimus’. “Your aura and mine confirm that we are both very, very human.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just keeps going. Seriously, I would stop reading right here if you were ill advised enough to read this far.

"Stop panicking,” Rodimus said, almost absently, clambering over his apparently comatose mechanical body and nearly falling right off onto the floor.  Ratchet caught him, glancing over at the apparently calm Drift.

“I am _not_ panicking,” Drift snapped, jumping lightly to the floor before getting tangled in his optic-piercing red, black, and white boots and pants and nearly going down hard. “I’m reacting appropriately to a distressing situation.”

“You’re panicking. Stop that. It’s not helping.” Rodimus turned in Ratchet’s grip to stare up at him. “And you. Put me down.”

Ratchet could practically feel Rodimus’ human heart hammering against his ribcage. “Right,” he said, and carefully put his captain down. Rodimus attempted to glare at him from a height not significantly above Ratchet’s knees. “And how exactly did this happen?”

“Like I’m supposed to know,” Rodimus grumbled, stalking around the stasis box. He wasn’t quite tall enough to see over it.

“According to Cyclonus, the two of you broke some kind of Hedonian law,” Ratchet said blandly.

“Cyclonus? Who put him in charge?” Rodimus scrubbed his hands through his hair in a very human gesture, accomplishing nothing other than making it stand more on end than it already was. He looked ridiculous. “Where’s Ultra Magnus?”

Ratchet pointed silently to the other side of the med bay. Rodimus huffed in impatience, also a very human gesture. Drift rolled his eyes, gracefully climbed back up on top of his comatose mechanical body, and looked.

“What happened to Ultra Magnus?” he asked, also apparently ignoring First Aid. The other medic was staring unblinkingly at both humans; something about his body language led Ratchet to interpret the expression he didn’t exactly have as the face of a mechanism staring at something impossibly adorable. 

“That was the most useless report ever,” Rodimus said, and until he said the word “report,” Ratchet was ready to agree with him on the subject of the utter lack of First Aid’s relative usefulness.

“He’s the one that writes reports, not me,” Drift said.

“Out of commission,” Ratchet interrupted, beginning to feel very much like he had back on Earth, babysitting a small horde of argumentative human adolescents. 

“Yeah, but _Cyclonus_? He’s a Decepticon!” Rodimus was waving his hands around wildly.

“He is _not_ ,” Drift objected. “He never –“

“Worked for Galvatron!” Rodimus retorted.

“Also not a Decepticon!” Drift had climbed back down again and was now attempting to intimidate Rodimus by getting into his personal space and leaning forward. Rodimus leaned right back.

“Stop it,” Ratchet said.

“How long are we stuck like this?” Rodimus asked, switching tacks without missing a beat.

“That’s what I was going to ask _you_ ,” Ratchet said. “You were the one who was present for judgment and sentencing.”

“Uh,” Rodimus said. “I actually don’t remember that part.” He glanced at Drift.

Drift shrugged, hands flexing on his hips as if searching for something that wasn’t actually there. “Loud sounds, bright lights, and then bam. Ratchet.”

“And First Aid,” Rodimus said, finally noticing the other medic.

“Ah, actually, there’s documentation,” First Aid said, swiftly crossing the floor and pushing buttons on the closer of the two stasis pods. “It looks like if we stuff them back into the stasis boxes after... wait…” He trailed off into a brief spate of muttering. “Just shy of four megacycles, they’ll revert to their proper bodies. There’s a connection port, see?”

Ratchet manhandled both humans under a diagnostic scanner with minimal resistance; their bodies were purely human with the exception of a minute mechanical patch located behind the left ear, extending through the skull.  “Pffft,” he said. Drift glared right back, one bare finger rubbing the patch.

“It doesn’t feel right,” he said.

“You’re in the wrong body,” Ratchet said, striving to keep the irritation out of his voice. “There’s no reason any part of it should feel right.”

“This part doesn’t belong,” Drift said stubbornly.

“Oh, let it go.” Rodimus eyed the distance to the floor.

“Don’t you dare jump,” Ratchet said. Rodimus jumped, tumbled, and came up on his feet. “If you break, I probably can’t fix you,” Ratchet told him.

“Bah.” Rodimus waved an arm dismissively. “Four megacycles? We can handle that.”

“You are, of course, familiar with human biology,” Ratchet said. “From your time on Earth.”

“And?” Rodimus was already striding toward the door.

Drift slid out from under the scanner as well, jogging to catch up with Rodimus. “I think he’s obliquely referring to the differences between their biological rhythm and the Cybertronian mechanical rhythm.”

“They sleep, we recharge, whatever.” Rodimus waved dismissively. “It’s fine.”  The door refused to open as he approached it. He glared for a moment and then kicked it. It obligingly slid into the wall. “Ha!” he said cheerfully, and jogged into the corridor.

At some point, the crowd had dispersed; the only one still lurking outside the door was Rewind, everpresent camera pointed and recording. Therefore only Rewind was present to see Ratchet grab Rodimus by the back of his collar and haul him back into the medibay. The recording, however, would probably make the rounds of the crew.

“Oh, come on, Ratchet.” Rodimus crossed his arms and pouted.

“Not until I’m completely sure you’re Rodimus and not some facsimile,” Ratchet said.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Rodimus said again. Ratchet locked the door. Once he’d subjected Rodimus to a rigorous line of questioning, the door slid open to reveal Perceptor, Brainstorm, and finally Chromedome.

“You can’t be serious,” Rodimus said, jerking himself upright when Chromedome entered the room with quick, precise steps.  “I’ve got an _organic brain_.”

“He’s an expert when it comes to the memory, and not just for the equipment in his fingers,” Ratchet said.  Rodimus groaned and buried his face in his gloves.

It took nearly a quarter of the first megacycle before all involved were satisfied, and then Ultra Magnus joined what Rodimus refused to call fun, even sarcastically in the privacy of his own head. Lessons on human biology – horrifying lessons, detailed under subheadings like Nutrient Intake and Waste Elimination – had been interspersed with the questioning.

“They did what,” Ultra Magnus said, glaring down at both of them from a height that Rodimus had never found quite so imposing as he did that very minute.

“I don’t know what we did,” Rodimus snapped peevishly. The initial practical applications of some of the lessons in human biology had been less than pleasant; his throat was dry, as he understood the term, but he didn’t want to deal with the inevitable side effect and ignored it. Drift had appeared to have no such compunction. “We just… they…”

Ultra Magnus frowned.  “Drift?”

The warm weight against Rodimus’ shoulder suddenly registered. He looked down to see Drift leaning on him, completely limp and eyes closed.  “Drift!”

“Ugh.” Drift shifted away, rubbing his eyes. “Different rhythms.” He blinked, slowly, and it occurred to Rodimus that the beginnings of the gritty feelings in his organic optics weren’t due to boredom after all.

Ultra Magnus looked at both of them and then at Ratchet. “Are you satisfied that they are who they say they are?”

“Y-yes?” Ratchet offered.

“Fine. There are human-oriented quarters available. Rodimus knows where they are.” Ultra Magnus stalked off, several sets of optics staring in shock at his failure to verify Ratchet’s conclusions.

“I do?” Against all odds, Rodimus remembered one specific memo sent amongst many, many reports, and decided that escaping the medibay was more important than asking what had gone wrong with his second-in-command. “I do! Come on, Drift.”

“Uh huh.”  Drift was listing sideways again. Rodimus poked him hard in the ribs. “Ow.”

**Lost Light, Upstairs**

The corridor was empty this time; Rodimus discovered that any and all unlocked doors would open when he kicked them and not before, which made an already long trip through the corridors of what he hadn’t realized was such a large ship even longer.

“Here!” he said finally, having made the executive decision to abandon Drift to the consequences of adhering to his biological rhythm on top of the executive decision to avoid his crew until he was no longer hauling his half-asleep third-in-command around by the arm. Both decisions were apparently going quite well.

“Great,” Drift said, walked inside the first door, and closed it.

“Ha,” Rodimus said, blinking and rubbing at his optics. He was almost sure there was actual sand in there, but he couldn’t fish it out. “Ah, slag it.”

Luck smiled on him again; Rodimus managed to make it all the way up to the bridge without being seen. He kicked the door unceremoniously, strode through it, and declared, “Your beloved captain has returned!”

“Our beloved captain is tiny,” said Trailbreaker.

“This isn’t normal, now, right?” That was Tailgate, who wasn’t supposed to be near a command station of any kind.

“What is he doing on my bridge?” Rodimus demanded, pointing.

“What are you doing on your bridge? It’s –“

“If you say dangerous, Perceptor, I’ll screw your mouth shut,” Rodimus interrupted, and scrambled up onto the captain’s chair. He didn’t usually sit in it, because the sitting was incredibly boring, but at this point he wanted the height advantage. “Tailgate, off the bridge.”

Tailgate swallowed whatever protest he’d been about to utter and left.

“Okay, where are we and what did we get from the Hedonians?” There had to be something; the Hedonians were prolific arms dealers. It would have been worrisome, except that Rodimus was also fairly sure they had no idea where the Lost Light had gone with its stolen stasis boxes. He’d just have to make a note not to go back any time soon.

As generally boring as trying to keep on top of the status of, well, everything usually was, today Rodimus found the routine almost comforting, at least until there were mentions of Brainstorm’s proton missile launchers.

“Great. Now I’m going to have to stop him from blowing up half the ship,” he muttered, and found an unexpected advantage to having a human form. It was apparently that much harder for anyone else to hear him making distinctly unprofessional commentary under his breath. Then it occurred to him that he would actually have to go stop Brainstorm from doing something monumentally ill advised, and an odd and very unpleasant sensation around his optics started to make itself known.  Rodimus scrambled off the chair and stalked off the bridge in search of his wayward scientist and his new toys.

**Lost Light, Deck Four**

Drift hit the floor with a jarring thump, finally waking completely.  The ceiling was farther away than it should have been, his feet were tangled in the soft cloth he’d needed to maintain internal temperature, and his left hand was twisted up under his back. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, disconcerting, horrifying, and he blindly thrust a resurge of yesterday’s panic downwards. Taking control of his breathing, Drift blinked a few times, eyes feeling distinctly sticky and eerily reminiscent of the rust plague on Delphi, and tried to accentuate the positive.

“I’m not offline,” he said out loud.  “I am no longer experiencing disturbing hallucinations.”  He thought it was normal for a human to experience vivid imagery while resting; the word ‘dream’ had come up often during his time on Earth. He just hadn’t expected them to be so unpleasant. He couldn’t find anything else positive to verbalize, and settled for extracting himself from the grasp of his winding textiles.

Having paid strict attention to the lessons regarding upkeep of his human biology, Drift thought he knew how to handle the waking routine. All things considered, he felt that his emergence into the hallway less than a cycle later counted as a success. The uncomfortable sensation in his midsection was less of a positive, but he was fairly sure it had something to do with lack of appropriate fuel. The problem there was that he was fairly sure energon wasn’t appropriate for organics.

“Have you eaten?” asked a booming voice far, far above his head, and Drift instinctively tried to adopt a defensive stance, reaching for weapons that were no longer attached to his hips. His center of balance was different, though, and he stumbled sideways while trying to compensate for the different sensations.

“Uh, sorry, what?” he said finally, after having managed to not hit either the wall or the floor.  The massive figure looming over him was Ultra Magnus, looking even more intimidating than he generally did.

Ultra Magnus sighed and crouched down, which was no less alarming. Drift backed up instinctively, hands at his hips closing on empty air. “Have you eaten?” Ultra Magnus repeated, at a much lower volume.

“No?” Drift said, after searching his memory for the verb.

“I didn’t think so.” Ultra Magnus set down a container; it looked tiny in his hand, but it was half as tall as Drift was. It fit through the door into Drift’s temporary quarters – which Ultra Magnus did not; the room was human-sized in all regards – and Drift learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about continued maintenance of his human body.

“Why do you know all this, anyway?” he asked after the explanation had wound down and the packaging for what was apparently called ‘breakfast’ was empty in his hands. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the hallway, Ultra Magnus once again crouched beside him.

“I… had a human crew member,” Ultra Magnus said, and stood abruptly. “I expect you to continue carrying out your duties aboard the Lost Light,” he added.

“Of course.” Drift stood as well, shoving two bottles of water and one of the smaller ration bars into the inexplicably capacious pocket on the left side of his pants. He had some equipment to commission first, though. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how this is happening and it's just getting worse. Why are you still here?

**Lost Light, Brainstorm’s Lab**

“Oh, not you too,” Brainstorm said.  He was suspended from the ceiling for no apparent reason. It put his face much closer to Drift’s eye level than it would have been if he’d just been standing normally.

“What do you mean, not me too,” Drift said, derailed by the comment.

“Rodimus was in here for cycles. Wouldn’t shut up.” Brainstorm twisted around and eyed him. “You’re not in here to complain about –“

“No,” Drift said, not even wanting to know why Rodimus had been complaining. “The speech recognition program for Project: Total Insanity.”

“Ah, I see.” Brainstorm looked at him for a long moment. “Your inter-Autobot radio doesn’t function.”

“And I can’t receive the alerts,” Drift finished.

Brainstorm dropped to the floor, landing neatly upright. “Handled.”

“Wait, what?” Drift blinked.

“Rodimus already wanted a communications device to harass the rest of the crew. Loading the speech recognition program to yours was simple.” Brainstorm cast around on one of the tables and came up with a set of tweezers. “Now where did I put that.”

The tweezers grasped something curved and held it out.  Drift held up a hand and what had to have been a device almost too small for Brainstorm to see with un-adjusted optics fell into his palm. 

“That bit goes into your ear,” Brainstorm said helpfully. “I took molds while you were in the medibay.”

“That explains that bit of nonsense,” Drift muttered. Brainstorm, during the verification process, had done some very detailed measurements of his and Rodimus’ various body parts, repeating the phrase “it’s for the template” whenever either of them had told him to stop.  The radio did fit nicely into his ear, and it was even user-friendly.  “I just tap it to activate it?” he said.

“And it’s voice commands from there,” Brainstorm said. “Plus the speech recognition program. Oh!” He rummaged around on the same table, looking inordinately pleased with something.  “And I made these for you.”

Drift suspected that Brainstorm had made the replicas of the two swords he wore on his hips – and a belt to hold them – because he thought the tiny non-ranged weapons were some combination of ridiculous and hilarious. The aura of suppressed glee surrounding Brainstorm did nothing to gainsay that particular idea, either. He put them on anyway; just having them made him feel better.

“And where is Rodimus?” he asked, having verified that there had been no alerts through the speech recognition program.

“How should I know?” Brainstorm was already back on the ceiling, absorbed in whatever project he’d been working on when Drift had interrupted him.

“Right,” Drift said, and left him to it.

**Lost Light, Oil Reservoir**

He eventually found Rodimus at the oil reservoir, cornered by Whirl and looking distinctly harassed.

“Oh captain, my captain,” Whirl was saying. Rodimus was glaring ineffectually.

“What are you doing?” Drift asked.

“Aren’t you adorable,” Whirl said, his single optic sliding around to focus on Drift. “With your little pointy bits and everything.”

“Oh, shut up,” Drift said, hastily removing his left hand from the sword hilt.

“Thank you for stealing our stasis boxes from the Hedonian law enforcement officials, thereby cutting off our access to one of the best weapons suppliers.” Rodimus started to push past Whirl.

Drift, his assessment of Whirl’s body language being nearly second nature, caught Rodimus just before Whirl’s shove sent him into the reservoir.

“Well, I’ll be,” Whirl said, looking at his own arms as if they had acted on their own.

“I think,” Rodimus said carefully, “that hurts.”

Drift let go of the other human and stepped back. His attempt at an apology – although he didn’t think he’d been that rough, really, and he was fairly sure Rodimus wouldn’t have done well had he actually fallen in – was buried beneath Whirl’s interruption.

“Well,” Whirl said again, “you’re squishier than you usually are.”

Drift noticed, at that point, the wet feeling against his hands. He looked at them curiously; they were spattered with red.

“I seem to have inadvertently caused a leak,” Whirl continued, and Drift looked over at Rodimus. A slow spread of red fluid was beginning to stain the bright yellow of his jacket.

“That can’t be good,” Drift said. Rodimus was staring at Drift’s hands. He reached over, slowly, and touched his fingers to the torn fabric.  Drift, working off a vague memory of pressure helping to keep organic fluid inside the skin where it belonged, pressed Rodimus’ hand to the tear. “Hold that there.” He turned to Whirl. “We’ll discuss disciplinary proce-“

“No,” Rodimus interrupted. “Just don’t touch me again, Whirl. Or Drift.”

Whirl blinked. His hands flexed, once, before he turned abruptly and left.

“This definitely hurts,” Rodimus said.

“Whirl is hazardous to your health,” Drift said. “Is it still leaking?”

“Bleeding,” Rodimus said. “And yes.” He peered down at it, cautiously moving his hand away, and his face went white. 

“Okay, then, we should probably get you patched up,” Drift said, fairly sure that drastic color shift was probably not a good thing. Rodimus gritted his teeth and looked away from the broken skin.

“Ratchet said he couldn’t do it,” he said, a note of something unfamiliar in his voice, and Drift rolled his eyes. He knew how to handle this.

“Stop panicking,” he said, and the color returned to Rodimus’ face.

“I’m not panicking,” Rodimus said, and followed Drift back to the medibay.

**Lost Light, Medibay**

Rodimus poked at the not particularly neat line of sewn-together skin along his side. “I don’t like it,” he said.

“Stop touching it.” Ratchet’s avatar slapped Rodimus’ hand away and wound a strip of textile around the injury.

“But it hurts. And I’m cold.” At some point, Rodimus had managed to master the art of widening his eyes and making a pathetically sad face. It was so at odds with his usual cocky grin – the one that meant he could get away with practically anything – that it made Drift’s skin crawl. Ratchet ignored it entirely.

“You have more clothing. Put it on.” The cut having been properly cleaned, stitched, and covered, Ratchet’s avatar stepped back and tossed something soft in Rodimus’ general direction.

Rodimus eyed the charcoal gray shirt with distaste. “It’s the wrong color.”

Ratchet’s avatar turned to Drift.  “ _You_ deal with him,” he said, and the avatar vanished.

Muttering something under his breath, Rodimus carefully pulled the shirt over his head.

Drift, sitting crosslegged a few feet away on the same exam table, tugged one of the water bottles out of his pocket and rolled it toward the other human.

“What’s that for?” Rodimus asked, picking it up with a dubious expression.

“Fluid replacement,” Drift said. He took the somewhat battered bar out of the same pocket and pushed it toward Rodimus; he was starting to feel the sensation he was beginning to associate with the need to refuel, and he was willing to bet Rodimus felt the same way. “Have you eaten?”

Rodimus eyed him skeptically, but he slowly drained the bottle. He shoved the bar back toward Drift. “You know what I think?” he said.

Far too many answers to that question fought for supremacy between Drift’s mind and his tongue, and the resulting pause was long enough for Rodimus to answer his question himself.

“Drills,” he said, derailing Drift’s train of thought.

Drift blinked, bar forgotten. “Drills?” A mental list of the bots aboard possessing drills as part of their anatomy started scrolling behind his optics.

“We need drills,” Rodimus clarified, which did absolutely nothing to explain his using the word.

“Well, if you need a drill, there’s –“ Drift started.

“Not that kind of drill,” Rodimus said, making a beeline for the door. He kicked it with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Why do you want to run drills? What kind of drills could you possibly –“ Drift found himself cut off by the closing door. “Slag.”

Rodimus must have run to reach the bridge so quickly, Drift thought when he got there, because Ultra Magnus was staring down at Rodimus with his second expression – the one that was just an angrier version of the first – and his voice was audible even through the bulkheads.

“In case of a Decepticon incursion, you and Drift are to remain uninvolved!”

“And what if this happens again?” Rodimus had his arms folded across his chest and he was balanced on the back of the captain’s chair. It still didn’t make him nearly tall enough to look Ultra Magnus in the eye, although Drift had to give him points for trying. “We need to develop a protocol, Magnus. Isn’t protocol a good thing?”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed dangerously.

“Hey, Drift. Decepticon invasion drill.” Rodimus didn’t have to be facing Drift for Drift to know that he was grinning.

“Uh, we take our lack of ranged weapons and easily damaged human shells and stay away from the line of fire,” Drift said.

“Precisely my point,” Rodimus replied cheerfully, and Drift blinked.  “We have a distinct lack of ranged weaponry.”

“No, I meant –“ he started, intending to explain that there were a number of ways in which the two of them could participate in repelling a Decepticon – or any other type of – invasion without putting their temporary and extraordinarily fragile human bodies in the direct line of fire.

“Drills!” Rodimus shouted, going past cheerful straight into mad glee, and leapt off the back of the chair.

“This is not helping us find the Circle of Light,” Drift said, putting himself between Rodimus and the door.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re at an impasse,” Rodimus hissed. “The Decepticons turned out to be a bust. We have no idea where they are. Chromedome doesn’t remember what the abductors looked like or who they are or anything else about them, and it’s not like we have another mnemosurgeon to go into his brain and find out.”

“This? This is not helping!” Drift hissed back. The knot of terror that had been shoved down during the first cycles as a human was expanding, welling up, crawling into his throat. He’d managed to suppress it, to pretend it wasn’t there, that he was fine with the temporary situation because it was _temporary_ and didn’t affect his aura.

“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it!” Rodimus stepped sideways and Drift moved to block him.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he began, because he could force his own fear away by trying to handle Rodimus.

“Get out of my way, Drift.” Rodimus pushed past, and this time Drift let him go.

“Drift –“ Ultra Magnus started, and Drift shook his head.

“I can’t. I can’t.” He rushed blindly off the bridge, not paying attention to where he was going. When his feet finally slowed, he was surprised to find himself in front of the door to his own quarters. He kicked the door until it opened, the sense of panic fading slightly in a room that had become something of a sanctuary.

The bladed weapons hanging on his hips helped slow his heartbeat down further, his breathing becoming less ragged.  Without thinking, he drew them and began to practice the most basic forms he’d learned from the Circle.

It wasn’t until much, much later that Drift replaced the swords, all but shaking with fatigue. The panic was gone, although a sense of unease remained. Feeling very much alone, Drift climbed up onto his recharge slab and fell into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Project: Total Insanity and Drift's speech recognition program are part of MTMTE 14.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, why are you still here? It's just getting worse.

**Lost Light, Later**

Pipes barely managed to duck before his overenthusiastic captain accidentally shot him in the back. Granted, the rounds weren’t live fire – at least, he was fairly sure they weren’t live fire, but it was an experimental tiny gun that Rodimus was holding, and anything was possible – but they were still designed to sting.

Trailbreaker clapped Pipes on the shoulder, and Pipes felt the vibration of Trailbreaker’s signature shield dissipating. The round from Rodimus’ weapon hit the deck with a tiny clang; Pipes hadn’t managed to duck fast enough after all.

“Sorry, Pipes,” Rodimus called. “Still haven’t got the hang of, er, aiming.”

“Um,” Pipes said, and then Blaster shot him in the chest.  “Ow,” he added, because the tiny projectiles set up for use in the training drill delivered a rather painful electric jolt, and also because Blaster had hit him multiple times. He actually felt ever so slightly light-headed.

“You’re a casualty,” Blaster called from around the corner. “Act like it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Pipes folded himself downwards, blocking the floor like an actual incapacitated bot.  Rodimus darted forward, now using his not-really-broken body as cover.

“Thanks, Pipes,” Rodimus said, using the advantage of his new position to ward off Blaster and Swerve as part of what appeared to be wild firing at no target whatsoever. Swerve went down dramatically, with a speech about dying for the Decepticon cause that went on long enough for Perceptor to shoot him again.  Pipes was sure it was Perceptor because his newfound field of vision allowed him to see the sniper hiding in the ceiling.

“That’s cold,” Swerve said, twisting around until he could see upwards. “We’re supposed to be on the same team.”

“You’re supposed to be offline. Deactivated bots don’t talk,” Perceptor said.

“Pfft,” Swerve muttered. Rodimus used the bantering distraction to dart from Pipes to take shelter nearly underneath Blaster. Perceptor, focused on Swerve, didn’t notice Rodimus until it was too late; Rodimus got off a lucky shot that – given his previous lack of ability to hit any sort of a target – shouldn’t have connected and knocked Perceptor out of the ceiling anyway.

“Victory!” he shouted, and narrowly missed being crushed by Perceptor hitting the ground.  “You did that on purpose.”

“You shot me,” Perceptor said blandly, and Rodimus stood up.

“Cease fire, exercise over, well done, reshuffle the teams and set up for round five. Those of you not involved in setting up, man your standard stations.”

“Rodimus.” The new arrival to the mock battlefield silenced the entire site with a single word.

Pipes remained absolutely still as Ultra Magnus stepped carefully over him. He got up only when the XO had cleared him entirely and was staring down at their tiny wayward captain.

“Everyone else, clear out, set up the new teams, you all know what you’re supposed to do.”  Rodimus tilted his head back, looking up at Ultra Magnus. Somehow he managed to give the impression that he was looking down. “Magnus.”

Pipes started backing away; both Rodimus and Ultra Magnus were between him and the console he was supposed to man during a standard duty shift.  He’d been in the middle of his shift when the fourth drill had started, which was how he’d ended up more or less on the front lines – the fight had come to him. It wasn’t a bad thing, it was just that now obeying orders meant staying in the room for a what looked like a potential conflict.

“Enough,” Ultra Magnus said, and it was almost quiet.

“The crew is doing really well,” Rodimus said. “I think shaking up the teams every time is having a very positive effect on response times and methods. It’s keeping everyone distracted. I don’t think we should stop now.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Ultra Magnus crouched down and handed Rodimus a bottle full of clear liquid.

“It hasn’t even been a full megacycle,” Rodimus said, nearly inaudibly, and opened the bottle.  He stared at it for a moment. “How am I supposed to do this for four?”

“Not by running drills,” Ultra Magnus said. There was a pause long enough that Pipes considered trying to sneak away, but now he didn’t want the captain and the XO thinking he’d been eavesdropping. Rodimus sighed and drained the bottle. “I know this can’t be easy –“ Magnus started.

“Ratchet,” Rodimus said.

“What?” Pipes could almost hear Ultra Magnus’ gears shift abruptly.

Rodimus turned on his heel and walked toward the Medibay, his gaze lighting on Pipes before he’d gone three steps.  “And Pipes! Excellent. Follow me.”

“Ratchet and Pipes what, now?” Pipes asked, falling in behind Rodimus with a glance over his shoulder at Ultra Magnus. The XO had one hand covering his face.

“What? No.” Rodimus shook his head. “I want you for something different. We’re just going to see Ratchet first.” 

“I understand,” Pipes said, although he really didn’t.

“You’re glad you’re here, right, Pipes?” Rodimus spun around, walking backwards, and pointed at him with the empty bottle. He wasn’t looking at Pipes, though; Pipes rather thought he was watching Ultra Magnus.

“I what?” Rodimus was about to hit a wall. “Behind you,” Pipes said.  Rodimus bounced off the wall and stumbled into Pipes. Pipes hurriedly stopped walking in an attempt to not accidentally crush the captain’s temporary body.

“But you’re glad you came,” Rodimus pressed, staring up at him.

“I don’t regret it,” Pipes said. “Even after Delphi. And Fortress Maximus. And Temptoria.”

Rodimus winced slightly, eyes flickering over Pipes’ shoulder, and started walking again. “Yeah, uh. Sorry about that.”

“No, no, I’m having a great time,” Pipes said hastily. “I don’t think anyone regrets it.”

“That’s good.” Rodimus sounded almost as if he’d stopped paying attention. Pipes kept quiet, matching his pace to human legs, until it occurred to him that maybe they didn’t have to go quite so slowly.

“Uh, I could transform, if you wanted to ride, and we’d get there quicker. Wherever there is.” Pipes had assumed they were headed to the medibay, for Ratchet, but Rodimus hadn’t actually said.

“What? Oh, sure.” Rodimus swung up onto Pipes’ back almost before the transformation was complete. 

“Where are we going?”

“Medibay,” Rodimus said, confirming Pipes’ guess. “I have some questions for Ratchet.”

It wasn’t Ratchet in the medibay when they arrived, however; Ambulon looked down at both of them when the door slid open.

“You’ll do,” Rodimus said, but Pipes didn’t think Ambulon heard it. Given the tone of the rest of the exchange, Pipes thought the low tone of Rodimus’ opener was probably a good thing.

“No, I am not going to perform experimental connections on you to return you to your body faster,” Ambulon said.

Rodimus tapped the plate behind his ear. “Just hook it up. Make it go. First Aid says you’re good. Ratchet says you’re good. I have every reason to believe you’d succeed.”

“And I have every reason to believe the Hedonians left a nasty surprise for someone attempting precisely what you’re trying to do,” Ambulon said.

“Where’s Ratchet again?” Rodimus asked, ignoring the objections entirely.

“Off shift,” Ambulon said. “You’re not going to have any more luck convincing him. Or First Aid,” he added when Rodimus opened his mouth.

Rodimus cast a speculative eye on Pipes.

“I’m an occasional mechanic, not a medic,” Pipes said hastily. Rodimus shrugged.

“I’m your captain,” he said to Ambulon. “You’re supposed to do what I tell you to.”

“Not when it endangers your life,” Ambulon retorted. “As a medic –“

“As a medic, you can analyze the data gathered from our human forms as well as data from our actual bodies.” Rodimus very carefully didn’t look at the corner of the medibay where his and Drift’s bodies were lying comatose. “And formulate a potential course of action.”

After a very long moment, Ambulon nodded. “The data can be analyzed.”

“Awesome,” Rodimus said, leaning against Pipes’ leg and staring hard at a section of the wall. “Not a word of this to Ultra Magnus. Or Ratchet.” His gaze sharpened as he switched his focus to Ambulon. “Not one word, do you understand?”

“Are you functioning properly?” Ambulon asked.

“Of course I’m functioning properly,” Rodimus snapped. “Pipes, we’re going.”  He glanced at the wall again and flinched when Pipes transformed back into alt mode.

“If you say so,” Ambulon muttered.

“The lab on deck 9,” Rodimus said once they were out in the hallway and the door was closed.

“The one with quarantine shielding?” Pipes asked.

“I have some thoughts,” Rodimus said. “For the next drill.”

“I can’t use the toxic gases in a drill, Rodimus.”  Pipes knew that he himself was coated against the corrosive vapors, but that wouldn’t hold true for the Lost Light or its crew members.

“Obviously not,” Rodimus said just a little too slowly. “No, we’re going to use colored steam as a simulation. The lab is to install the steam generator. And test it.”

It was on the tip of Pipes’ tongue to question exactly what Rodimus was doing; he clearly hadn’t considered a steam generator, he hadn’t considered that using toxic vapor during a drill wasn’t a bad idea, and Pipes wasn’t sure the Lost Light was the best venue for his particular skill in any case. “Wouldn’t you and Drift suffocate?” he said instead, because the introduction of a very specific atmosphere aboard the ship hadn’t gone unnoticed. “If I emit the gases during an invasion.”

“Right,” Rodimus said slowly. “Pipes, can you do something for me?”

“Of course.” Pipes certainly wasn’t about to say no outright.

“I need you to analyze the residue in this.”  Rodimus waved the mostly empty bottle he’d gotten from Ultra Magnus in the vague direction of Pipes’ optics. “I need to know exactly what’s in it.”

“Okay?” The lab in question had the necessary equipment, and Pipes himself had enough experience with the basics to do a simple substance analysis. “Is there something you’re expecting to find?”

“Why, do you think there’s something there?” Rodimus asked sharply.

“I…” Pipes trailed off. “No?”

“Just keep driving. And keep quiet.” Rodimus tapped his foot against Pipes’ back the entire way to the lab, and the tapping didn’t cease during the testing process.  

“It’s hydrogen and oxygen. Water,” Pipes said eventually. Rodimus was leaning against one of the walls, out of sight of the door, and his hand not quite casually on the experimental mock gun he’d been using during the drills. No one had come to the lab, and there had been no calls over the inter-Autobot radio for either of them. Pipes was beginning to feel as nervous as Rodimus looked.

“Are you sure that’s all that’s in there?” Rodimus said, fingers moving over the gun in a repetitive pattern.

“There are trace amounts of calcium, potassium, fluoride, magnesium, and a few other minerals,” Pipes said. “All in their ionic forms, none of them in larger molecules.”

“What does that mean?” Rodimus muttered. “What’s he doing?” He turned to Pipes. “You see it, right? He’s undermining me.”

“Uh,” Pipes said, now entirely sure he was mired in something he wanted no part of. If being human had driven Rodimus mad – which was starting to seem like a definite possibility – Pipes’ first instinct was to go straight to the XO. “Maybe this should be discussed with Ultra Magnus?”

“And let him know I’m on to his plot?” Rodimus shook his head. “No. Oh, no. I don’t think so.” His eyes narrowed, but whatever he was about to say was lost as the door opened.

“There you are,” said Drift. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, I think this has seriously derailed and gone off in entirely the wrong direction.

**Lost Light, Deck Nine**

“No, I’m not,” Rodimus said automatically, and then his brain caught up with his mouth. “Wait, what do you mean, there you are.”

“I’ve been looking for you for cycles.” The door slid shut as soon as Drift cleared the threshold, cutting off the shadows on the other side. “You realize you’ve scrambled everyone’s recharge schedule with the consecutive invasion drills.”

Rodimus blinked. The steadily growing pain in his skull made it a little hard to remember exactly how long he’d been running the drills. He thought there’d been four, or maybe five, but that was no help. “What time is it? What _day_ is it?”

The look Drift was giving him, Rodimus decided, was inappropriate. So was Drift’s next action, which was pulling a water bottle out of his ridiculously large left pocket and practically wrapping Rodimus’ hands around it when Rodimus just looked at him.

“I don’t know why you keep doing that,” Rodimus told him. The bottle seemed heavier than it should have been, and he eyed it suspiciously.

“Because you’re not,” Drift said. “I asked.”

“That’s none of your business,” Rodimus said. “In fact, it’s creepy. You and Ultra Magnus both are taking way too much interest in my refueling habits.”

“Oh, fine, then you can just completely destroy your very fragile human body by dehydrating it to death,” Drift snapped. He stepped back and sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

At some point, the conversation had taken a sharp left turn. Rodimus blinked, let it go, and opened the water bottle. “Hey, Pipes.”

“It’s the same as the other one,” Pipes said. He was nearly flat against the wall, and Rodimus thought he was closer to the door than he had been.

“How do you know?”

“It was sealed shut, same seal, and I don’t see any tampering.” Pipes turned to face Drift, and Drift nodded. “Excuse me,” Pipes said.  The door opened as soon as he approached it directly.

“No, wait,” Rodimus started, but the shadows that had been in the hallway were gone. “Go ahead,” he said, when Pipes paused.

“Rehydrate,” Drift said, and Rodimus sat down on the floor to swallow the water. Not standing felt good, almost as if he were weightless.

“Have you been back to see Ratchet?” Drift asked, and Rodimus yanked his wandering attention back.

“Why would I be back to see Ratchet? Did Ambulon say something?” Rodimus snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t thought before speaking. He had to remember to do that.

Drift blinked. “Why would Ambulon say something- never mind. I was talking about that.”  He tapped at the stitches that Rodimus had forgotten he had.

“Ow,” Rodimus said, although the stitches hurt less than his head did. “Has it been half a megacycle already?”

“Yes, which is why Ratchet sent me looking for you.”

“What, you’re all just assuming I can’t take care of myself.” It was cold in the lab, and Rodimus drew his knees up toward his chest in an attempt to conserve heat. “Which is ridiculous, you know, I had the Matrix and I was in charge of things and it’s not like I didn’t survive this _four million year civil war just like the rest of you_.” He stopped, not quite sure of his train of thought, gave up, and plowed ahead. “Leave me alone, Drift. I don’t need to be _protected_ , least of all from _myself_.”

“Fine. Fine.” Drift backed toward the door, hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll just go tell Ratchet you’re fine and don’t need any follow-up checks, just in case something has gone horribly wrong and is now growing under your organic skin.”

It was probably sheer coincidence, but Rodimus felt something itching along his side at that precise moment.  He clamped his hand down on it, but he couldn’t feel anything move against his palms. Even so, he had a sudden mental image of things growing in his flesh, and he instinctively gritted his teeth and swallowed hard against an upwelling sensation in his throat.

“Okay, I’m going,” he muttered when the feeling had passed, and climbed to his feet. The world tilted around him just enough to bring the unpleasant feeling back, and he pressed a hand to his mouth.  “No, fine, I’m fine,” he said, waving the other hand at Drift. The ship had steadied again.  “Are we encountering turbulence?” He thought he remembered an asteroid field somewhere in the area, although there was no reason for the Lost Light to go flying through one.

“I don’t think so,” Drift said.

“Huh.”

Ratchet was not particularly pleased when Rodimus wandered in, trailed by Drift. “Took you long enough,” he said over Rodimus’ shoulder.

“He’s stubborn,” Drift said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Stay,” Rodimus said, without meaning to say it out loud.  He didn’t realize he’d spoken until Drift circled around in front of him.

“You told me to leave you alone,” he said. “And I’ve got to get back to the bridge.”

“Right.” Rodimus kept his eyes on the floor. The same shadows that had been in the hallway were washing gently against the edges of the room, ebbing and flowing in a slowly hypnotic rhythm.

“Oh, for Primus’ sake. I’ll be right back.” Drift vanished into the hallway, his departure perfectly timed to match the shadows pulling away from the door.

“On the table,” Ratchet said, having apparently decided it was time to move on. Rodimus climbed up without protest, but when he got to the top, the shadows were covering almost half the floor. They were nearly at Ratchet’s feet.

“Watch out,” he said, aiming the only weapon he had at them.

“What are you doing?” Ratchet asked, looking from Rodimus to the shadows and back again.

“They can’t touch you,” Rodimus told him.

“There’s nothing there,” Ratchet said, and the shadows receded slightly. Rodimus eyed them warily. “Sit down,” Ratchet added.  “And remove your shirt.” Rodimus pulled off the textile in question and sat, but he kept his weapon at hand and his gaze on the shadows.

Ratchet unwound the textile from around Rodimus’ torso.  “Does it hurt?” he asked, his avatar running gentle hands along the unbroken skin on either side of the cut.

“No,” Rodimus answered. “Not much.”

“Good,” Ratchet said. “It’s not warm to the touch and it appears to be healing properly.”  He applied some sort of liquid to another textile and started swabbing the broken skin.

Rodimus winced and pulled away. Ratchet yanked him back, his avatar stronger than it looked. “ _That_ hurts,” Rodimus told him.

“That’s inevitable,” Ratchet said. “Hold still.”

It felt as if Ratchet were actually attacking him with liquid fire, but Rodimus made himself hold still. The more motionless he was, the more the shadows seemed to recede. They had almost withdrawn back into the walls when a kick at the door signaled Drift’s re-entry into the room.

“Try not to get this wet the next time you bathe,” Ratchet said, taping something clean and dry and soothing over the cut. “It hasn’t been interfering with your sleep, then?” he asked.

“Uh.” Rodimus couldn’t remember what the verb meant.

“Recharging,” Ratchet clarified, and then his avatar crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me you haven’t slept.”

“I won’t?” Rodimus tried.

“He’s been running drills for the past half megacycle,” Drift chimed in from the floor. The shadows were wrapped around his ankles, and Rodimus regretfully gave him up for lost.

“I’m fine, everything is fine, can I go now, that wasn’t a question because I’m the one who’s in charge here.” He pointed at both Ratchet and Drift in turns. “I’m leaving.”

“If you just hold him down long enough, he’ll probably pass out,” Ratchet said, and the shadows were up to Drift’s waist.

“Isn’t that going a little far?” Drift asked.

“How many times have you slept since becoming human? Three? Four?”

Rodimus kept one eye on Ratchet and one on the shadows, carefully using Ratchet’s voice to mask the sounds of his descent from the exam table. He couldn’t hide the door opening, though, and then the shadows had him by the ankle. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. It's gotten away from me completely and I have no idea what anyone is doing.

**Lost Light, Outside the Medibay**

The commotion was audible around the corner. Curious, Swerve picked up his pace a little, approaching the medibay door to see a rather unexpected sight. Drift was practically sitting on top of Rodimus, trying to keep his right arm immobilized. Rodimus, for his part, was pointing the toy gun Brainstorm had provided for the invasion drills at apparently random points on the wall and ceiling. As Swerve watched, one of the mock projectiles narrowly missed hitting Ratchet in the face.

If Ratchet didn’t have control of the situation, Swerve knew exactly how to derail all involved. “So who let the ghosts on board?” he asked jovially, pitching his voice to carry.

Rodimus froze, and Drift used the opportunity to yank the weapon out of his hand and fling it away. “We don’t have an atmosphere conducive to ghosts,” he said tightly.

“That’s not what our good captain was shooting at?” Swerve asked. “I thought humans could see into other planes of existence.”

They were both staring at him with identical expressions of confused indignation now, mirrored on Ratchet’s face as he peered around the doorframe. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Swerve, but if it’s Rodimus, he’s unavailable for the next few cycles.”

“No, I’m not,” Rodimus said, attempting to wriggle out from underneath Drift. “What can I do for you, Swerve?” Something was slightly off about his voice, but Swerve couldn’t place it.

“Yes, you are,” Drift told him. “There is nothing pressing that needs your attention.”

“There’s always something that needs my attention,” Rodimus said, and Swerve figured out what didn’t sound quite right; the words were blurred together, as if the connections to his vocal processors weren’t quite plugged in correctly.

“Stop being such a stubborn idiot and let your body recharge,” Drift said, quietly enough that Swerve didn’t think he was supposed to hear it. He had good ears, though, which people always tended to overlook in their focus on how much he talked.

“I can’t go offline. It feels wrong,” Rodimus said at the same volume, sounding ever so slightly hysterical, and finally managed to struggle free. “Swerve, what do you need?”

“Uh,” Swerve said, glancing between Rodimus and Drift. If he’d had half an optic left, he would have kept it fixed on Ratchet. The morning was not going as planned; he’d intended to poke a little good-natured fun at both the captain and his third in command for their apparent indiscretion on Hedonia, but apparently it was a more serious situation than he’d anticipated. “Can I talk to you privately, Rodimus?” he said, pretending he didn’t notice Ratchet and Drift glaring.

“Is this about the bar?” Rodimus asked, climbing slowly to his feet.

“Uh, sure. I mean yes. Yes, it is.”

“We can talk in my quarters,” Rodimus said, and led the way not to the deck Swerve had been expecting but the row of human-friendly rooms Drift had been sleeping in since what had been dubbed The Hedonian Incident.

Swerve was small enough to fit through the door, if he turned sideways.  He deliberately chose the wall to his left to lean against as he sat down, and Rodimus sat on the recharge berth as the best angle from which to face him.

“So about the bar,” Swerve began, pitched his voice to a monotone (harder than it sounded), and started explaining the difficulties of synthesizing the various types of engex he kept behind the bar. Rodimus’ eyes were halfway closed by the third sentence, and by the twelfth he was slumped sideways against the wall. Swerve carefully reached over to nudge him toward the center of the berth, continuing to talk, and Rodimus didn’t even twitch. He felt a little cool to the touch, though, and Swerve’s optics lit upon the square of textiles folded near Rodimus’ feet. He pulled it over the human for extra warmth and very quietly left the room.

Drift was waiting outside.  Swerve put a finger over Drift’s mouth before he could speak. Drift batted it aside.  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, but the door had closed behind Swerve, which meant it was probably safe to talk.

“Using my Primus-given talent,” Swerve said cheerfully. “He’s recharging.”

Drift blinked. “What did you do?”

“Talked him into unconsciousness,” Swerve said. “It’s a gift.”

“You definitely get to keep the bar license,” Drift said.

“Pfft,” Swerve said, because he’d already had that promise on at least three different occasions. The bar wasn’t going anywhere.

**Lost Light, Bridge**

At no point did Rodimus’ drills end up being useful for any type of alien incursion; the fifth drill, however, did mean a number of participants were alert and aware in time to avoid a wayward comet trailing a truly impressive tail.

The combination of the icy tail and the nearby star made for a stunning light show, the entirety of which Rodimus slept through. Ultra Magnus ignored it as well, being distracted by plotting a course trajectory around the few closest cosmic phenomena capable of damaging the Lost Light beyond repair and keeping Whirl away from explosives.

By the time Rodimus finally kicked the door open, the light show had faded into nothing more than the occasional flash outside the aft windows and Ultra Magnus was seriously considering delving into the more obscure clauses and bylaws of the Autobot code in search of enough red tape to strangle Whirl permanently.

“Was that a comet?” Rodimus asked, ignoring the tense atmosphere on the bridge.  “Whirl, would you blow it up,” he added, without waiting for an answer.

“Why,” Ultra Magnus asked.

“Because,” Rodimus answered, and Magnus was sure Whirl was smirking.

“Because I get to blow things up,” Whirl said. “It’s the natural order of the universe.”

“And because it relieves the pressure on the part of his brain that causes him to do unpredictable things,” Rodimus said, with the air of repeating something he’d heard from someone else.

“Oh, yeah,” Whirl said. “That too.”

“It’s almost out of range,” Rodimus said, and Whirl practically skipped over to the firing controls.  “Ultra Magnus, a word.” Almost without waiting for a reply, Rodimus folded his arms across his chest. “The Decepticons in the brig.”

“What about them?” It wasn’t as if they could just take the war criminals back to Cybertron.

“They can’t stay down there,” Rodimus said, as if it were self-evident. “Not long-term.”

“Where would you suggest we put them?”

“Cold storage.” Rodimus tapped his fingers along his upper arm. “We don’t have the resources to watch them, to make sure they stay in the brig.”

“Cold storage is hardly more energy-efficient than the cells in the brig,” Ultra Magnus pointed out.

“No, but we can at least be sure they’ll stay where we put them.” Rodimus hopped off the back of the captain’s chair.

Ultra Magnus watched him for a moment; he _seemed_ perfectly rational – or as rational as Rodimus ever got – but the increasingly erratic behavior and burgeoning paranoia since being stuck in a human body had to be taken into consideration.

“Look, if you want to supervise, we’re doing this now.” Rodimus paused in the doorway, which was threatening to close on him; he absentmindedly kicked it every time it started sliding toward him.

“I’ll join you,” Ultra Magnus said, choosing his words carefully. He opened his mouth to tell the rest of the bridge crew to carry on, but Rodimus beat him to it.

“None of you do anything stupid while neither of us is watching,” he said. “At least wait until I come back.”

Ultra Magnus resisted the urge to groan as he followed Rodimus off the bridge. In the hallway, he picked Rodimus up with a muttered “With your permission” and balanced him on his shoulder.

“You’re taller than I remember,” Rodimus said flippantly.  “What do you want to talk about?”

“You,” Ultra Magnus said. “And the Decepticons.”

“I thought we settled that.”

Broaching the topic of a commander’s potential emotional instability and impaired judgment was never easy, and Rodimus was touchy on the matter of being in charge of things in any case. Rodimus apparently took his silence for agreement.

“We should be able to take them one at a time –“

“Have you seen Ratchet?” Ultra Magnus asked abruptly.

“I wanted First Aid to supervise the process,” Rodimus said. “Well, Ratchet agreed to it, and First Aid has some experience in the area.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Ultra Magnus continued walking, not heading toward the brig.

“You missed the turn,” Rodimus said.

“I don’t think this is the right time to make a major decision,” Ultra Magnus said, trying to be something less than blunt and insensitive. “Particularly not one made with such… speed.” 

“You don’t trust my judgment,” Rodimus said flatly.

“That’s not the issue,” Ultra Magnus said.

“That’s exactly the issue. You think this –“ and Ultra Magnus could see Rodimus gesturing at his human body out of the corner of his optics “– has scrambled my circuits.”

He couldn’t answer in the affirmative without further agitating Rodimus, and he couldn’t answer truthfully in the negative.  Ultra Magnus sought a middle ground. “There has been some –“ he started.

“I was tired, okay,” Rodimus said. “Apparently the human brain doesn’t shut down properly when it doesn’t recharge. It starts malfunctioning instead.”

That was hardly a reassuring statement. “Malfunctioning,” Ultra Magnus repeated flatly.

“It resets with proper recharge?” Rodimus said. “The point here is the Decepticons.”

“There’s no rush,” Ultra Magnus said, and turned the final corner.

“Why are we standing in front of Rung’s office?” Rodimus asked. 


	7. Going Into A Swamp Never Ends Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stuck on the other one. And then this happened. I don't even know.

“I don’t know why you ask questions when you already know the answer.” Ultra Magnus, once the words left his mouth, thought they were perhaps just a little un-called for, but the way Rodimus’ eyes narrowed told him otherwise.

“I’m the one –“ Rodimus started.

“Duty of care,” Ultra Magnus said, and the door slid open. “Rung,” he added in greeting.

“Ultra Magnus,” Rung replied. “Rodimus.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rodimus complained, but he walked into the office without much hesitation when Ultra Magnus placed him gently in front of the open door.  Still, Ultra Magnus deemed it prudent to keep an open channel monitoring the hallway outside the door as he left.

Somewhat to Ultra Magnus’ surprise, there were no sounds of a precipitous exit following his departure. He did hear Drift entering the room with the accompanying thump to the door, which was somewhat encouraging.

Brief visits to both the brig and the medibay ensured that the Decepticons were still secure – Fortress Maximus had had notes on the subject, passed through Powerflash – and that First Aid knew he was not to be placing anyone in cold storage without express permission.

All in all, really, the majority of the day passed without more than normal disruption; Ultra Magnus barely saw either Rodimus or Drift, nothing exploded, and there were no reports of unruly behavior. There was the coffee incident, fairly late in the evening, but it was fairly minor.  Still, the shouting seemed like it should be at least investigated. The small crowd gathered around said shouting only served to support that conclusion.

“That’s just sick and wrong,” Rodimus was saying as Ultra Magnus rounded the corner into Swerve’s bar. “Sick and wrong.”

“It helps maintain concentration,” Drift said serenely.  He was seated crosslegged on one of the tables, back straight, holding a cup half full of dark fluid in both hands. The scent emanating from the cup was not unpleasant, but it was rather strong.

“That’s not oil, is it?” Ultra Magnus asked, eyeing Swerve despite the contents of the cup not quite smelling of engine oil. He knew perfectly well that organics couldn’t metabolize engine oil – he’d done the reading on Earth, thank you, even before acquiring his erstwhile human passenger – but he didn’t quite trust Swerve not to have gaps in his knowledge.

“Absolutely not,” Swerve said. “Nope. Not on my life.”

“It’s coffee,” Drift said. Rodimus was sitting on the edge of the same table, feet swinging in the air as he stared disgustedly at his own cup of dark liquid.

“It’s vile is what it is,” he said. “It has no right to smell like that and taste so… so…” The look he gave the cup was positively mournful.

If he’d had human lungs, Ultra Magnus would have sighed. “Try it with an additive, Rodimus.”

“A what, now?”

The coffee maker was on the bar, jacked into the ship’s power systems, and the box it must have come out of was still sitting next to it. Ultra Magnus recognized it as part of the contingency supplies, on the extremely unlikely off chance that the Lost Light encountered humans or a similar species on their travels. Since he’d put it together, he knew exactly what was in it.

“This,” he said, very carefully picking up a tiny container from inside the box and placing it next to his captain.

“Uh huh,” Rodimus said, and fished around inside the container.  It didn’t take long for his coffee to turn much lighter and somewhat syrupy.  “You’re right,” he said, although it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to Ultra Magnus or to Drift. “This is delicious.”

“That’s an abomination,” Drift replied, now looking faintly horrified.

“Why,” Ultra Magnus asked, heading off a potential disagreement over the relative purity of coffee, “are you making that in the bar?”

“It’s that time of day,” Rodimus returned cheerfully.

“You look like you’re just waking up,” Ultra Magnus said, which he thought was a fair statement given Rodimus’ state of disarray.  Rodimus scrubbed a hand through his hair, not helping in the slightest.

“Yeah, but humans operate on a way shorter sleep-wake cycle, so it made perfect sense to come down here.” Rodimus finished his sentence by taking a healthy swallow of the coffee, putting the cup down with a very self-satisfied smile.

Drift shrugged. “It’s been a very strange…” he trailed off and buried his own face in the coffee mug.

Ultra Magnus gave up. “Try not to cause trouble.” Two pair of matched Matrix-blue eyes blinked up at him innocently and a shiver crawled down Ultra Magnus’ spinal strut. “I mean it,” he said, turned on his heel, and marched out of the bar.

**Lost Light, Shuttle Bay 2**

“No,” Ultra Magnus said, face set into his second expression.

“What –“ Rodimus started to say.

“If you say ‘what could possibly go wrong,’ I will glue your mouth shut,” Ultra Magnus said.

“It’s –“ Rodimus started again.

The verbal sparring match had been going on for several kliks, with Ultra Magnus shutting down nearly everything Rodimus said before he got more than a few syllables into his argument. First Aid was absolutely _fascinated_.

“Stop looking at him like he’s a pet,” Drift said from somewhere in the vicinity of First Aid’s midsection.

“But it’s adorable,” First Aid said, glancing down. Drift had climbed up on top of a console and was precariously balanced.  The tip of the sword on one hip was jammed in a corner, which couldn’t have been comfortable. “And I think Rodimus is winning.”

“Huh,” Drift said, watching their captain and second in command for a moment. “I think you’re right.”

First Aid knew he was right; his attention to detail had already told him all he needed to know about Ultra Magnus’ body language. The SiC had capitulated, he just didn’t quite know it yet. Rodimus, on the other hand, was apparently demonstrating the human equivalence of victory and confidence.

“You don’t even know if the atmosphere is compatible,” Ultra Magnus said.

“Yes, I do,” Rodimus retorted, and looked at First Aid.

“Uh,” First Aid said, his vocal processors stuttering ever so slightly at the glare Ultra Magnus was directing his way. “The, uh.” He cleared his processors with only a little static. “The atmosphere on the moon is an appropriate mix of human-compatible gases with no toxic trace elements, and exposure to natural solar radiation has a distinct beneficial effect on human physiology.”

“See?” Rodimus demanded.

**Life-supporting Moon, No Official Designation**

Which was how First Aid ended up on a rather mucky little moon – more of a planetoid in a bizarre sort of binary orbit, really – full of organic vegetation and all the wrong sorts of grime squishing under his feet with a grinning Rodimus striding along in front of him. Drift was shaking the muck off his boots with an expression of distaste. First Aid had a lot of sympathy for both the expression and the attempt at getting rid of the clingy mud.

“Stop making that face,” Rodimus said.  “There are things here we need.” He looked happy and relaxed despite the squishy environment, skin and hair all but gleaming in the bright sunlight.

In and of itself, the statement was not entirely incorrect. There were some trace elements on the organic planet that were useful in synthesizing various supplies in the medibay. It was, however, far easier to trade for said elements than harvest them, or it would have been if not for the still relative proximity to Hedonia and the trade embargo.

More than one group had been sent down to the moon to search for sources of the necessary supplies; three teams of two, plus First Aid and his two human charges. Strictly speaking, First Aid’s team wasn’t there to collect supplies at all – he was supposed to keep an eye on Rodimus (and Drift, by default) – to make sure that their delicate human bodies weren’t damaged.

Drift grumbled something that First Aid only caught by turning up his audio receptors to their maximum capacity, and even then he couldn’t get much more than what he was sure was profanity and something about Rodimus being bored. Despite his protests, though, his body language was changing as well, the tension slowly leaching away as he clambered through the vegetation.

The attention First Aid was giving to Drift’s mutterings – they progressed past Rodimus and his boredom to the heat of the system’s sun and then the stickiness of the muck in short order – meant that he missed the first set of sensor alerts.

“This environment is not suitable for organic life forms,” he said when the pinging finally registered.

“What? You said it was fine.” Rodimus was balanced halfway up some sort of rigid plant, putting him on a level with First Aid’s face, and First Aid had no idea when he’d climbed up there. Drift was at the bottom of the plant, arms crossed over his chest.

“There’s radiation in the atmosphere that is likely to cause damage to your systems,” First Aid said. It would more than likely eventually damage Cybertronian systems, too, if left long enough, but the organics were likely to display the effects first.

“I thought we looked for that sort of thing,” Rodimus said, and that was the thing. It had been properly scanned and the radiation hadn’t shown up.

“Exactly,” First Aid said. Drift got it first.

“Radio the other teams, get back to the Lost Light, get them on board _now_ ,” he said, and then Rodimus’ eyes widened. First Aid’s blatant unholstering of his weaponry had probably helped in that regard.

“That’s not naturally occurring and you think it’s hostile,” Rodimus hissed, clambering off the plant and back toward the ground.

“That particular signature has, in the past, been associated with Decepticons,” First Aid said, now that he had a little more information.

“Great,” Drift said, and picked up the pace. First Aid scooped him up with one hand and grabbed Rodimus with the other.

“Hey, watch it!” Rodimus said.

“I can move faster than you can,” First Aid said.  It turned out to be a moot point, because there were Decepticons between them and the shuttle.

The ensuing scuffle was less than dignified, and First Aid would have liked to think he gave a good accounting of himself. He was a better medic than a warrior, though, and the dust cleared with only Drift having reached the shuttle undamaged.  First Aid himself was held immobile bare meters from the shuttle doors and he couldn’t see Rodimus at all.

The only bright spot was that none of the members of the group of Cybertronians were actually Decepticons; they were neutrals who’d remained largely out of the war. The less bright part of that spot was that they were apparently holding the Autobots responsible for said war and their subsequent exile from Cybertron.

“Didn’t you hear the message? The war is over? Come home?” First Aid said, for which the leader of the group – a hulking blue mech apparently designated Linestrike - dented his faceplates.  When his systems stopped throwing up error messages and his vision cleared, First Aid was farther away from the shuttle than he had been to begin with, and the NAILs had apparently found Rodimus.

“And what the hell is this little thing?” Linestrike asked, dangling Rodimus by the back of his flame-patterned jacket.  Rodimus struggled ineffectively, unable to either free himself or reach the weapon First Aid could see tucked into the back of his pants.

“Don’t touch him!” First Aid surged forward, and Linestrike started laughing.

“You’re really attached to your little pet, aren’t you,” he said, and that was when the half the remaining teams arrived.

“What happened to Deftwing and Backstreet?” Rodimus called, apparently giving up on struggling for the moment.

“Made it off,” Sunstreaker called back.

“And Waverider?” Rodimus asked.

“With Deftwing and Backstreet,” Sunstreaker said. Bob was pressed against his leg, body language purely defensive.  Landmine and Skids were close enough to Sunstreaker to provide cover and far enough away not to interfere, although in First Aid’s opinion, Sunstreaker didn’t need the backup.

Given that there had only been the one shuttle to begin with, First Aid was fairly sure that the other three were currently performing a flanking maneuver.  What none of them could see were the little shivers and twitches in Linestrike’s plating – something in his main processor was severely glitched, and none of the other NAILs were much better off.

“Shut up,” Linestrike said, and First Aid clamped his mouth shut before he realized that the NAIL had been talking to Rodimus and Sunstreaker. “Your ship. Where is it?”

“You’re standing in front of it,” Sunstreaker said after a moment, having now been designated as Autobot spokesperson.

“This isn’t your ship,” Linestrike spat.

“This is it.” Sunstreaker shrugged. “It’s not much to look at. It’s cramped. And I mean, having to share with these guys?”

“Shut up!” Linestrike shouted, and shifted his grip on Rodimus, who squeaked and clenched his jaw shut.

“You’re going to kill him!” Sunstreaker shouted back, and Linestrike’s grip eased.

“Ah. You’re worried about this one.”  The other NAILs fanned out into a tight defensive line. “Or surely the big bad Autobots would have attacked by now.”

Three Autobot signatures were clearly visible in First Aid’s scanners; the NAILs had to know they were there. Sunstreaker hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Rodimus, and Bob snarled.

“If you don’t back off _right now_ , I’m going to crush this little organic,” Linestrike sneered. He cupped Rodimus in both hands, almost but not quite squeezing.

“Slagged scrap heap,” Rodimus said, and Linestrike’s hands convulsed.  Rodimus screamed.

“Back off, back off!” Skids shouted, and the three hidden Autobots carefully made their way out of the vegetation, hands held out in the most nonthreatening manner possible. Linestrike relaxed his grip, and Rodimus dangled limply from the dull fingers.

“Your little organic pet is still alive,” Linestrike said. “Now. Your ship.”

“This is –“ Sunstreaker started to say again.

“Don’t lie to me!” Linestrike tilted his chin toward First Aid, and pain flared along First Aid’s side. “I will slice this one to bits if you lie to me again.” 

Warm liquid seeped out of what First Aid knew was a messy incision; not enough to cause excessive damage, or at least not yet. He shifted, not quite struggling against his captor. “Don’t move,” the NAIL hissed, and jabbed him in the side again.  First Aid went obediently still, mind racing. If the Autobots rushed the NAILs, they’d win with minimal damage – the NAILs were glitching and the Autobots had millions of years of combat experience. First Aid himself could take a significant amount of damage.

The problem was Rodimus, and his fragile human shell, and First Aid couldn’t see a way out.

“Hey,” Rodimus said, voice ringing out loud and clear and cutting through First Aid’s thoughts.  “You’re using me as a hostage against my own crew?” He had his tiny ineffective weapon in one hand, and for a moment First Aid thought he was going to use it on Linestrike.  He was about to shout at Rodimus that it wouldn’t do any damage, when Rodimus grinned. It was the smile that had gotten him out of trouble on so many occasions. “I don't think so. Watch this,” he said, and turned the weapon on himself.

 The next few seconds were a blur.  Blaster fire ripped its way through First Aid’s torso, the sparks forming an eerily silent counterpart to the red fluid leaking from underneath Rodimus’ skin.  As he fell, First Aid could see Drift aiming the shuttle’s weapons at the group of NAILs and the six Autobots charging forward.

Linestrike’s hands opened, shock and surprise written across his features, and Rodimus dropped toward the ground. Bob leapt through the air, catching Rodimus in his two slender hands before landing on all fours with the human cradled underneath his plating.  He scurried onto the shuttle, weapons fire bouncing off his back.

The NAILs went down in a matter of seconds and Skids dragged First Aid onto the shuttle right after; his limbs wouldn’t respond, and his vocal processor seemed to have shorted out. His optics followed.


End file.
